


We Do It In Style

by indevan



Series: Rock Band AU [34]
Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: All of the Usual Ships are Here But None are Explicit, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Gen, Humor, Some issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 18:55:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14118765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indevan/pseuds/indevan
Summary: They’ve all learned by now that when Whis approaches them with a request, it’s generally not a good thing





	We Do It In Style

**Author's Note:**

> [AU timeline](http://vertigoats.tumblr.com/post/166537761367/since-after-the-first-few-the-fics-in-rock-band)

They’ve all learned by now that when Whis approaches them with a request, it’s generally not a good thing.  It’s usually him telling them about some magazine that wanted to do an interview or an indie music blogger who was spreading false information.  Last week it was someone snapping a picture of Turles making out with one of the guys from Pride Troop even though he had a girlfriend--Turles, to his credit, claims that he didn’t know it was him since it was dark and he was drunk.

“Hey,” Raditz says uneasily. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Do you have some business with King Kai?” Kakarrot asks.

His voice is so sunny and unassuming that he nearly thinks that his brother is being that optimistic.  He sees the way his hands twitch, though, and realizes that--no. He’s just as suspicious as the rest of them.

“I was actually looking for you boys.  I know he called you to the studio today so I was hoping to get you all at once.”

As usual, Whis is the picture of calm.  He stands in front of them, arms behind his back in a shiny, tailored suit.

“What is it?” Broly asks.

Raditz wonders if King Kai knows what Whis is going to ask them.  He didn’t seem overly stressed or sweating at the meeting today, which means that he doesn’t know or that whatever Whis wants doesn’t involve his husband.  Nothing strikes fear into their manager more than Beerus Lorde--well, nothing except Jaco getting his coffee order wrong again.

“You see, my husband and I have this yearly charity event for others in our circle.”

Their circle, which meant other unfathomably rich gay guys.  Raditz _still_ can’t wrap his mind at how much money they had.  He can barely register now that he no longer really has to worry about his finances himself.  Not as much as before. He grew up poor and then was a poor adult. A memory stands out, suddenly, when the water was shut off in their apartment and they had secretly taken turns out back, using the gardener’s hose to shower off.

“Right,” he says finally because he realizes that he’s been staring.

He hopes that Whis isn’t going to ask them to come in attendance.  Not worrying as much about money isn’t the same as having enough to go to a lavish charity event.  Raditz only owns part of a suit since he ruined the dress shirt on Valentine’s Day.

“That’s cool,” Turles enthuses, ever the charmer. “I mean, you have two G’s and three B’s right here.”

Whis chuckles at his identifiers. “Quite.  I was hoping you all would come. I have taken the liberty to invite the boys of Kame Kami as well.  It will give good press for your upcoming tour together.”

The way he words it makes it sound as if they’re on equal billing, but Raditz knows better.  Kame Kami is opening for them, much to Tien’s disdain. But hearing that _did_ make him feel better.

“Oh.  You want us to play at your event?”

Another chuckle.

“Not exactly.  You see, our normal company fell through and we’re in need of a waitstaff.”

That’s--

“What?” Vegeta demands.

“Yes,” Whis says and smiles serenely. “It would be marvelous publicity, don’t you think?”

“Fuck that.” He waves a hand in dismissal.

Whis’s grin stretches further and he holds one finger up in the air.

“Oh, it isn’t actually a request.  We’ll see you at six tomorrow.”

Broly looks momentarily distressed. “See us where?”

“I’ll text you all the address, don’t worry.”

Raditz can’t believe this.  They don’t have any experience waiting tables or serving people.  Before he dedicated his life to being a rock star, he was going to be a motorcycle mechanic while struggling to put in twenty hours a week at a used bookstore. The rest have all only worked retail or stocked shelves at the grocery store.

“Why?” Turles asks.

“Well, why don’t you ask Mr. Prince and why he decided to fornicate in my garden,” he says in that same serene voice.

It’s their cue to shoot their lead singer four glares.  Vegeta simply rolls his eyes.

“You can’t prove it was me.”

“We all heard you.”

“We did,” Turles says, slinging an arm around his shoulders.

Vegeta curses under his breath and folds his arms.  Broly still looks distressed, his fingers hooked into the gold necklace he always wears.

“Wait, because Vegeta screwed up, we all have to be punished?”

“That’s how it goes, yes.” Whis raises his thin, manicured brows. “‘Screwed’ being the operative word, of course.”

Raditz is blindingly reminded of high school and how their friend’s temper and ego landed them in trouble both at school and at the punk shows they used to go to.  He can’t count all of the times _he_ (as the biggest) would have to intervene because Vegeta had punched someone in the face for elbowing his short ass in the neck or head in the pit.

“See you tomorrow evening,” Whis says and he has the nerve to wink before walking past them towards the door to the studio.

Immediately, Turles tightens his grip on Vegeta’s shoulders and pulls him into a headlock.

“You ass!” he snaps.

Vegeta jabs an elbow into his middle to get him to let go.

“Fuck off.”

“Hey!”

Kakarrot, ever the mediator, jumps between them.

“Who cares if we have to pass out champagne and canapes and stuff?” he asks. “It’s for a good cause, right?”

Raditz nods in agreement with his brother.  The guys from Kame Kami will be there, too. It won’t be so bad.

\--

“This is hell,” Raditz growls.

He feels completely exposed.  At the studio yesterday, Whis had left out the very important note about what being part of the waitstaff would entail.  He’s currently naked from the waist up except for the bowtie around his neck. Everyone else in the band is dressed similarly.

“See, now this is just unfair.”

Yamcha’s voice holds no malice as he comes up to join them in the kitchen off of the ballroom where Whis’s guests wait.  Tien stands behind him looking as pleased as he always does when he sees him, which means he looks like he smells something rancid.  The upcoming tour is going to be a _joy._

“You, at least,” he says, pointing to Raditz, “work out.  But how do the rest of you have nice bodies?”

“Genetics,” Vegeta says flatly.  He smirks and adds, “plus me and Bulma do a lot of cardio.”

Turles reaches out to flick at one of his nipple piercings.

“That ‘cardio’ is what got us stuck in this gig.”

Vegeta retaliates by reaching forward to tweak one of Turles’s decidedly un-pierced nipples.  He yelps and slaps his hands down. As usual, Tien regards them as if they’re dirt-smeared gum on the bottom of his shoe.  Yamcha’s smiling, though, so it can’t be that bad.

“So where’d you get that scar?” Kakarrot asks.

Tien fixes him with a look and he shakes his head.

“No, no.  I understand those.” He gestures under his own pecs. “But that one.  It looks kinda gnarly.”

Tien touches the scar near his clavicle and shakes his head.

“Not everyone accepted my coming out as well as my parents did.”

Kakarrot’s eyes widen and he places a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry.  That really sucks.”

Tien looks surprised and stammers out, “Th-thank you.”

Kakarrot smiles and picks up a tray of champagne flutes.

“Sure thing.  Now we should probably get out there before Whis kills us.”

He pushes through the swinging doors that lead out into the ballroom.  Snatching up a tray of bacon-wrapped scallops, Tien follows suit. Still grumbling under his breath, Vegeta takes a tray of champagne to walk out onto the floor.

“Huh,” Turles says because he can’t go five minutes without talking. “If we threw Lapis in here, we’d have a kitchen full of people who have slept with Raditz.”

Broly makes a distressed sound.

“And one person who wanted to.”

Raditz sighs and punches him in the arm almost reflexively.

“Ow--why must you all hit me like this?”

He arches a brow. “Are you honestly asking that?”

Yamcha continues to watch this with a bemused look.  Broly, though, looks upset as he grabs a tray of canapes and marches out of the kitchen.

“You ass,” Raditz says. “Why do you keep jerking him around like that?”

Yamcha seems to deem this as his cue to leave with his own tray, leaving the two of them and an unbothered kitchen staff.

“What do you mean?”

He sighs.  Turles can’t play this game.  He’s known him since he was six years old--knows him better than anyone, really.  They can’t hide anything from each other.

“Broly.  You like him.  Why can’t you just tell him?”

Turles bites his lip and then worries at the piercing through the bridge of his nose.

“It’s not that easy,” he says, usual sarcasm gone from his voice. “I want it to be his call.  I don’t wanna force him into anything he’s not ready for.”

It’s a more honest answer than what Raditz expected.  That at least makes sense. Something else, though, is bothering him.

“Then why are you jerking him around?  Like talking about how he used to like me and shit?”

He exhales. “I have no goddamn clue.  I just...do this shit. What did you used to call it?”

It takes him a moment.  The usual reason why he would break up with Turles back when they were dating.

“Tinfoil,” he says.

“Yeah.  Like chewing tinfoil.” He rolls his eyes up towards the ceiling and adds, “My mom used to say that something was left out of me when she was pregnant.  Maybe it’s true.”

It isn’t to get a reaction since Turles has never been like that.  He’s never fished for sympathy or wallowed in self-doubt.  Raditz grabs hold of his shoulder.

“Your mom is an asshole,” he tells him. “She never deserved you.  There’s nothing wrong with you--got it? You just speak without thinking.”

He means it.  He never thought Turles really _meant_ any of his shit-stirring words, even back then at his angriest.  They just came out because he, like the rest of them, have shit impulse control.

He gives a sort of crooked smile and says, “Thanks, Radi.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He gives his shoulder one last squeeze. “Let’s get out there before Whis sics his terrifying husband on us.”

\--

He’s the last person Vegeta would have expected to see at an LGBT fundraising event, but there he is.  Standing by himself and looking like how he’ll probably look twenty-five or so years from now.  Fucking bastard.

“You don’t have any money to donate, why are you here?” he asks his father bluntly as he shoves a flute of champagne into his hand.

His father goggles at him for a moment.  Maybe he’s wondering what _he’s_ doing here or why he’s in such a state of undress.

“When did you get that tattoo?” he asks finally, pointing to the ornate crown situated between his crotch and navel.

“A little bit ago.  Answer the question,” he impresses.

“I...I was invited,” he says finally. “By Mr. Lorde.”

_That scheming, shitty…_

“Oh?”

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he says quickly. “It’s one of my steps.  To show support for Tarble. And you.”

He shifts the tray on his hand and scowls. “Tarble would feel better if you didn’t write his tuition money away.”

It's mean and he knows it's for a good cause--hell, he's already talked to Bulma about writing a check out to Whis--but there's something in him that can't resist.

“I wasn’t planning on much.  Mr. Lorde understands our family has had recent financial issues.”

He snorts through his nose at “recent.”  His family’s been hemorrhaging money since his grandparents came over from Sicily.  They had made a decade of good years before their finances went to shit.

“Tarble wants to go to Breadloaf when he graduates,” he says. “Remember that.”

His father nods. “Of course.”

He wrinkles his nose down at the champagne and Vegeta feels a sense of vindication, knowing how much his father hates it.

“How are you?”

The tray of champagne flutes rattles on his hand.

“Fine,” he says tersely.

“How’s the, uh, band?”

He doesn’t know what his father is going for.  Maybe he thinks it’s his chance to talk to him.  Get him in a public place where he can’t make a scene like he did at Christmas.

“Good.  We’re doing this waitstaff thing as a favor to our press agent,” he explains.

He opts not to mention that it’s their punishment for he and Bulma not being able to control themselves at Whis’s party.  That’s none of his father’s business.

“How’s Trunks?”

“Fine.”

The tray rattles again as his hand begins to shake.  He can’t be here with him and now his father is staring at his bare chest with confusion.

“They’re nipples, dad,” he says brusquely. “You have them, too.”

“I just don’t know why you’d pierce them.”

He bites back a comment and shrugs.

“Whatever.  I have other people to see.”

His father nods. “Of course.  Don’t let me keep you.”

He turns on his foot and leaves.  It’s, by far, the most civilized discussion he’s had with his father in years, but he’s pretty sure that it’s solely because of the location.  He doesn’t think he’s ready for a one-on-one just yet here or at home or a restaurant. The scene he made on Valentine’s Day is enough to know that even a public place isn’t safe from his temper.

“Hey!” Kakarrot materializes next to him, looking at ease both as a waiter and being half-naked.  No surprise there from the guy who sleeps in the nude. “You alright?”

He jerks his chin towards his dad.

“What’s he doing here?”

“Whis is a meddler.”

Kakarrot arches his brows and lets out a whistle. “Well, then.”

They probably shouldn’t be standing so close together since it’s not even like their trays have variety.  It doesn’t seem to matter, though, as rich patrons float past them, plucking flutes from their trays as if they’re statues.

“Love your tattoos,” a man says in passing and Vegeta isn’t sure which one of them he’s talking to.

Kakarrot’s free hand brushes his collarbone where his sons’ names are tattooed and frowns.  The momentary distraction passes and he looks over at him.

“You alright?”

He shrugs. “It is what it is.  I’m not as pissed as I could be.”

“That’s a step, right?”

Is it?  As usual with the relationship between him and his father, Vegeta has no clue.

\--

Broly knows he’s not the best waiter.  He feels dumb and big and naked out here in his bowtie and tuxedo trousers.  Worse still, he keeps moving in the same general pattern around the floor as Krillin who’s a good foot and a half shorter than him.

He awkwardly shoves the tray in people’s faces and mumbles when he talks.  It’s like in school when he would have to make presentations at the front of the classroom and the teacher would have to coax him through it while his classmates tittered from their seats.  The men at the gala seem less rude, at least to his face. Several smile encouragingly and a few others let their eyes linger on his body. He doesn’t think of it as a good one. He isn’t as genetically blessed as the others who can shovel as much junk food and alcohol into their systems as they want and still look unfairly built.  He’s kind of slouchy and lanky, but the men don’t seem to mind.

“Hey, Broles.”

He isn’t sure when Turles comes up behind him but he snatches one of the smoked salmon crostinis off of Broly’s tray.

“You can’t have that,” he says blandly because he’s still kind of mad at him.

“Says who?  I already touched it.”

“It’s got cream cheese.”

Turles holds it to his lips and then curses.

“Damn lactose intolerance.  Well, I can’t put it back so.” He offers it to him. “Peace.”

“Peace?”

“I shouldn’t have said that earlier.  About your crush on Raditz.  I’m sorry.”

He thinks Turles might be growing up.  There was a time when he would choke on the words “I’m sorry,” but here he was.  It makes him like him more, if that were at all possible. Broly takes the crostini into his mouth and nods his thanks.

“There you are.”

Whis rushes towards them and Broly begins chewing as fast as he can.  By the time their press agent is upon them, he’s hastily swallowed the crostini and whatever moment he and Turles were having has passed.

“Here we are,” Turles affirms. “What’s up?”

He thinks he’s going to clock them for being terrible waiters, which is fair.

“I think you’ve all proven yourselves enough,” he reports. “The real waitstaff is here.”

“The real...you said they fell through?”

He isn’t sure when Krillin got here but he’s glad that he’s the one who spoke.

“No, no.  I just asked them to come later.” He grins and lifts one finger. “Publicity, boys.  And punishment. How I love P words.”

Krillin sighs and shifts his gaze to Broly.  He wonders if they’re having a moment of sorts.

“Then what?  We can go home?” Turles asks, his voice at its usual drawl.

Whis waves his hand.

“No, no.” A smirk twitches to his lips as he eyes the three of them. “I don’t suppose you noticed who I hired to head up security at this event, did you?”

“Yeah,” Turles says, “Nappa.”

Nappa, Broly thinks, who got to be fully clothed in black pants and a black t-shirt unlike the rest of them.

“He brought your instruments.” He flicks his eyes to Krillin. “And Nail brought yours--do you know Nail?  Remarkably resourceful young man. Best PA I’ve ever had.”

Whis straightens back to his sure-backed posture and holds up three fingers.

“Three songs each from both bands.  I feel like that will suffice?”

Broly blinks, not sure what’s going on but he’s figured out that he probably doesn’t have to pass out any more crostinis.

“Can we get changed?” he asks.

Whis gives a high, melodic laugh.

“Oh, heavens no.”


End file.
